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soft shiver of the wellnigh surfless sea on a rising
tide, rose, fell, rose, fell. The sand cliff
shone like a bank of snow. And all was inhabited,
as a moonlit night is wont to be, by a magical Presence.
A big moth went past her face, so close that she felt
the flutter of its wings. A little night beast
somewhere was scruttling in bushes or the sand.
Suddenly, across the wan grass the shadow of the
pine-trunk moved. It moved—­ever so
little—­moved! And, petrified—­Gyp
stared. There, joined to the trunk, Summerhay
was standing, his face just visible against the stem,
the moonlight on one cheek, a hand shading his eyes.
He moved that hand, held it out in supplication.
For long—­how long—­Gyp did not
stir, looking straight at that beseeching figure.
Then, with a feeling she had never known, she saw
him coming. He came up to the verandah and stood
looking up at her. She could see all the workings
of his face—­passion, reverence, above all
amazement; and she heard his awed whisper:

“Is it you, Gyp? Really you? You
look so young—­so young!”

VII

From the moment of surrender, Gyp passed straight
into a state the more enchanted because she had never
believed in it, had never thought that she could love
as she now loved. Days and nights went by in
a sort of dream, and when Summerhay was not with her,
she was simply waiting with a smile on her lips for
the next hour of meeting. Just as she had never
felt it possible to admit the world into the secrets
of her married life, so, now she did not consider
the world at all. Only the thought of her father
weighed on her conscience. He was back in town.
And she felt that she must tell him. When Summerhay
heard this he only said: “All right, Gyp,
whatever you think best.”

And two days before her month at the bungalow was
up, she went, leaving Betty and little Gyp to follow
on the last day. Winton, pale and somewhat languid,
as men are when they have been cured, found her when
he came in from the club. She had put on evening
dress, and above the pallor of her shoulders, her sunwarmed
face and throat had almost the colour of a nectarine.
He had never seen her look like that, never seen
her eyes so full of light. And he uttered a
quiet grunt of satisfaction. It was as if a flower,
which he had last seen in close and elegant shape,
had bloomed in full perfection. She did not
meet his gaze quite steadily and all that evening
kept putting her confession off and off. It was
not easy—­far from easy. At last,
when he was smoking his “go-to-bed” cigarette,
she took a cushion and sank down on it beside his chair,
leaning against his knee, where her face was hidden
from him, as on that day after her first ball, when
she had listened to his confession. And
she began:

“Dad, do you remember my saying once that I
didn’t understand what you and my mother felt
for each other?” Winton did not speak; misgiving
had taken possession of him. Gyp went on:
“I know now how one would rather die than give
someone up.”